


that's why you have to keep going

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Finger Dislocation, M/M, Masochism, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest, Soul Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:35:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7353706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The waves of pain and pleasure are suffocating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's why you have to keep going

**Author's Note:**

> this work is based on [these amazing](http://rksins.tumblr.com/post/146634517468/rksins-sound-fx-bones-breaking) [drawings](http://rksins.tumblr.com/post/146692514118/holy-shit-love-m-papyrus) by rksins

 

Sans is rubbing your ulna, slowly, tenderly, bone chafing against bone in soothing strokes that always calm you down if you’re having a bad day. He doesn’t look at you when his fingers slide down to rest on your wrist, feeling your metacarpals through the fabric of your gloves. “Wanna leave these on?”

Swallow. “Yeah.”

His hand moves again, grips your phalanges, and it makes you shake in anticipation. But he just holds them carefully, staring, the exact opposite of what he should be doing, and you resist the urge to rush him. (You’ve always been impatient about everything, maybe too much so, but it’s hard to stay still when something’s pulling at your soul and your chest feels tight.)

“You sure?” Sans asks after a moment. He’s just stalling at this point, you both know that, but you still nod with a small sigh, trying your best to pretend that the discomfort in his eyes isn’t there. To ignore how heavy the air is, the tension that’s buried deep in your bones and gnawing at you.

You shift slightly on the bed, lean forward, as Sans raises your hand, tightening his hold, and presses your index finger against his palm. Your breath hitches as he starts bending it, adding pressure tentatively, more and more and -

There’s a small cracking sound as the bone gives in, twisting unnaturally, and you let out a choked sob as the pain spreads across your whole body. You barely have any time to ease your breathing before Sans bends another one, motions fast and sudden, and your head spins; your bones tingle like you’re itching everywhere, soul reacting to the sensations and pulsing strongly inside your rib cage.

Sans is watching you now, still holding your hand but avoiding your crooked phalanges. He looks unsure, exhausted, leans closer to wipe away the tears you didn’t even notice.

Is he shaking or is it you?

“O-oh,” you rasp when you finally find your voice again, hiccups falling out of your mouth. You’re dimly aware that you’re hyperventilating, squeezing Sans’s arm as hard as you can. “Oh g-god, it, it h-hurts, it _hurts_ -”

“Pap, do you want me to stop?”

“Not yet!” You didn’t mean to shout, you didn’t, but the pain feels almost unbearable, overwhelming. You grab his hoodie urgently and pull him against your chest, pant into his mouth. “Another one.”

He hesitates just for a moment before taking your ring finger and twisting it harshly. You moan this time, and the sounds won’t stop coming after that, moans and sobs and whimpers constantly leaving your mouth as you cling to him desperately. Your soul is bursting, pulsing and throbbing almost painfully, radiating burning heat you know he can feel too; small droplets of white and orange drip against your bones, trickling down onto the bedsheets.

(It’s too much but still not enough, you can’t feel your hand anymore -)

Sans clears his throat, swallows thickly. “Papyrus.” He’s pressed up close to you but his voice still sounds distant, like it’s not there, and you blink slowly, disoriented. “You wanna let the other hand be? You look really tired.”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes the sentence, dropping your head down to rest on his shoulder. “Keep going.”

He’s silent for a while, rubbing tiny patterns on your wrist.

Inhale. Exhale. “Okay.”

You let out a breathy, strained moan when he starts again, bending and bending, and it’s so _hot_ in here, you feel too hot; your whole body is shuddering, burning under the touches, under the pain that makes your head ring so loud it’s aching, that makes you push your pelvis against him weakly in an attempt to make the swirling sensation of _want_ more tolerable.

The waves of pain and pleasure are suffocating.

Sans releases his grip on your arms and lets them lie limply on the bed, leaving you heaving and panting against him. You can still faintly feel your twisted fingers torching under the growing numbness. (Are your hands still trembling?)

He reaches inside your chest and brushes across your soul; it’s too sensitive now, and even the gentle caress is too much, enough to make you whine and curl in on yourself from overstimulation. Sans keeps stroking it as you mumble his name, over and over against his clavicle, completely lost in the dizzying sensations.

It doesn’t take long until your orgasm washes over you, grazing through your bones repeatedly. You press your ruined fingers down onto the mattress, shivering, all energy drained out of you.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, I love you…”

(You can’t look at his face, can’t handle seeing the uneasiness, the sadness behind his eyelights.)

Sans is quiet by your side. You feel him kissing your frontal bone, soft clacking of bones pressing together. He wraps his arms around you and pets your scapula, slowly up and down, _it’s okay, it’s okay -_

“I love you too.” Silence. “Hey, Pap. Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Another kiss, lingering. “Good.”

 


End file.
